


Ghosts in the Sunlight

by Miss_sunfire



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Hope, Lena Luthor Needs a Hug, Multi, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Sad with a Happy Ending, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29193162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_sunfire/pseuds/Miss_sunfire
Summary: “Let me go...it’s okay.”...and the thing was, Natasha really, truly believed it was.  They all knew there would be casualties, they always knew it was a long shot. All of them went into this knowing they’d have to give every last ounce of themselves to pull it off. All knew at least some of them probably weren’t going to be coming home.Some of them didn’t even want to.Or that fic where I rewatched infinity war and got real sad, then got mad, then had a bad case of plot bunnies, then started writing a fic about it.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor, Kara Danvers/Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Lena Luthor/Natasha Romanov (Marvel)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 143





	1. The Restless Dead

**Author's Note:**

> *waves*
> 
> Hey everyone. So, yeah, I've been on hiatus. That's likely to continueish. I was just too goddamn burnt out by a shitty fucking year in which I took no vacation like a dumb dumb. I'm doing a bit of writing again, but probably not for super long (I'm trying to graduate real hard this year, and that is taking basically all of my emotional energy). 
> 
> Still, for what it's worth, I had a plot bunny and was enjoying letting it run free. This story will probably be shorter than usual, so I'm hoping I may actually finish it. Who knows?! Not me!

“Let me go...it’s okay.”

...and the thing was, Natasha really, truly believed it was. 

Even in the face of that look of utter betrayal on her partner’s face, sending hot shame and guilt into her gut. 

Even in the face of Laura’s increasingly distant mental voice nagging away in the back of her skull about bullshit self-destructive behavior. 

Even as a suppressed swell of panic and primal fear churned through her gut as gravity asserted itself on her body for the final time. 

After all, this last ditch, insane, utterly impossible mission had never been planned with extraction as a goal. They all knew there would be casualties, they always knew it was a long shot. All of them went into this knowing they’d have to give every last ounce of themselves to pull it off. They all knew how to make the sacrifice play. How to jump on the grenade for their friends and comrades. Half the goddamn fucking universe was at stake. With Steve Rogers leading the charge, it was just a matter of who, when and for what payoff. 

Logical.

All, so neatly logical, strategic and planned out. 

Clint had a family to get back to at the end of all this. People who depended on him and who would be devastated to lose him. The soul stone could only be obtained by one of them sacrificing themselves. Any idiot knows the math of that situation. The call that needed to be made. If a problem with such an obvious solution could even be called that. 

Simple. She didn’t even have to think. Truly it was easier not to. 

After all, examining the howling beast bursting its way through her skin was far too painful to even consider. Dozens of thoughts, regrets and unsure hopes churned through her mind as the chilling wind whipped up and whistled past her ears. 

Laura’s tear stained face every time Natasha came home to the farm on leave after being shot on mission. 

The kids, smiling faces and squealing about their auntie Nat coming around for the holidays.

Late night commiseration with Steve and Sam, the taste of cheap vodka and coffee on her tongue. Tired laughter as the two men built something fragile and heartbreaking after the death of their mutual soulmate. 

The now familiar sting of her still absent soulmates, even so many years down the line. Though it’s not surprising. After all, the devil has no soul. 

The ever present, always clinging reddened guilt on her palms. 

Red, bloodstained lips, haunting music and aching feet en pointe. 

Worried, tired looks from the shattered remains of the Avengers. Frustrated calls to just _talk_ to someone when anyone left to talk to is _dead, dead, **dead**._

Months, years, _decades_ of half healed gunshots and stab wounds reopening during the next mission for the next questionable master. Till she doesn’t know what’s good or what’s right anymore. God please, just give her a sign. Tell her what to do. 

So many mistakes, so many failures, so many voices screaming in her brain demanding she do better, be faster, be harder, work harder, put her body on the line once more to try and wipe off just a bit more red from her ledger. Only for every half hearted swipe of color to just spread the stain further. 

...Is it any surprise then, that she falls to her death with a smile on her lips? 

She’s so _tired_ of it all. Of the lies, fear, broken promises and tentative first steps to trust lying dead on the floor. Of dragging her exhausted, aching body out of the mire day after day as her soul cracks again and again and again and _again._ No, they all knew the risks. All knew at least some of them probably weren’t going to be coming home. 

Some of them didn’t even want to. 

Not if they could buy this one last thing. This one last chance to truly save the universe. Even if it was a universe that didn’t really have a place for them anymore, at least this was some form of redemption. A final act that could let the ghosts of her victims finally rest. That their pain and loss could, in some small way, help pay the price that saves half the universe. A price that really wasn’t that big at all. 

After all, who was she really coming home to? The splintered and fundamentally broken Avengers? Maria, Coulson and the rest of SHIELD she was barely on speaking terms with? Laura and the kids? 

No. 

She and Clint were a mess. Two boxes of broken bloody glass. Laura would have the fight of her life putting his shattered pieces back together without Natasha sticking her nose in and smashing the pieces with a baseball bat.

So Natasha smiles. 

The wind whistles. 

Sick relief pools in her gut.

Rock rises up to meet her as harsh cracks fill the air.

Hot flaring pain in her legs and ribs and _oh god._

Pennies on her tongue, stupid, stupid _stupid_ -

-regret, pain, why?!

Shredded muscles slowly pull an arm up to reach the sky, wondering, worrying if this was finally enough to let her rest. To earn her freedom. To clean the ledger. 

Orange light flares at the edges of her darkening vision on the top of the cliff. Giddy Relief floods her.

They got the damn fucking magic space rock. They did it. They actually _fucking_ did it. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

It’s okay. 

They have a chance. 

Blackness fills her vision. Her heart slows and slows. Her arm falls to the ground. 

She smiles, teeth bloodstained and triumphant.

The wind howls.

* * *

It’s an end to a story. Not a happy one certainly, but an important story nonetheless. One simultaneously filled with blood, pain, resignation and fierce, burning _hope._

It was _okay_. 

Just as Natasha fully expected it to be. She’s satisfied. She did her best. Gave everything she had and she was successful. Broken as they were, the Avengers always did their best work when backed into a corner. Steve wouldn’t fumble the ball she passed him. Of all the questionable leaders she’d followed, he was perhaps the most solid and dependable. Even desperate and searching, he’d find a way. 

Natasha keeps smiling as the blackness swells and pulls her under into death. 

Only, the blackness isn’t all encompassing. The beating of a valiant, optimistic, _stupid_ muscle stops for several long seconds, but a foolish last jolt of electricity from the fading brain tells it to keep trying. Breath leaves burning lungs, happy to finally stop churning, but a painful wheeze follows her brief dead faint. 

Pain and consciousness ripple, but they only pause for a few seconds. Long enough to count for the magic rock bullshit, but not long enough to be permanent. 

No. Never that. Clearly Natasha’s not that lucky. 

The spy curses the clearly vengeful gods out for her blood and suffering. Doubly so as several agonizing creaks from rapidly fusing bones drift off on the howling winds. 

...well, and she curses the goddamn pirate _fuckface._

She should have guessed this sort of bullshit could happen. Even indeterminate decades later, her memory is still too spotty, too unreliable to be sure of what exactly happened to her under the red room’s control. She’s dimly aware that there was a period, probably at least a few years long where she _knows_ the Red Room was working with hydra. She remembers recovering from visits to the lab. She remembers her graduation ceremony. She remembers pain even weeks later. She remembers suffering. She remembers white fire in her brain and a thick guard in her teeth. 

(Widows are marble. They do not bend. You must learn this or die.) 

She doesn’t remember what they actually did, just as she doesn’t remember many of her missions. After all, her handlers were all too happy to erase any event that might shake up her supposedly unflappable loyalty to the state. It was supposed to be the perfect plan. The perfect, implacable soldier, unflinchingly loyal and dependent on her orders. 

It failed. 

(She’s not a idiot or a rube. Even with a brain full of fog and smoke she knew she shouldn’t trust them. Knew she had to get away. Knew that defecting when the wall fell was the only choice.) 

The former soviet assassin also knew quite explicitly that Fury took years to trust her at all. She knew that any records of the experiments he’d retained were on paper and probably hidden in some deep dark bunker somewhere. Fury never trusted anyone, not even SHIELD. Still, the pirate was canny and knew he needed to know her weaknesses if SHIELD ever had to take her out. While she might have resented it at the start of her employment...it was honestly a relief later. 

Without the hard records of her actions staring her in the face, she could keep moving forward day to day, pretending vainly it all happened to some other girl. That the blood wasn’t really on her hands, nor the smoke in her nostrils. 

(The screams of children as Natalia walks away from the burning building. Objective accomplished. Evidence destroyed. Handlers will be pleased. Maybe she’ll have time to rest, time to eat, one more day, one more day.) 

Natasha knew the Soviets, like every other major power, was working on duplicating the super soldier serum. Fury had the files that showed how close they got. Always called it nothing more than a “cheap knockoff.” It was more of an annoyance really, since it just increased her caloric intake needs. She knew she was strong, fast, healed quickly and aged gracefully, but was that so strange? She’d had a lifetime of training. Everyone heals at different rates, and while she often got injured on missions, she was simply too good and too fast to take an injury that would permanently disable her. 

Clearly, the Soviets got a bit further than Fury wanted to admit. 

Natasha’s fingers twitch towards the pistol on her hip. 

She wonders if a 300 meter swan dive off a cliff isn’t enough to do the job, maybe a few ounces of lead to the temple would work better? 

...Hot guilt swells in her aching stomach, keeping her fingers firmly in place. 

Despite the ache at the base of her skull, her thoughts are clearer than they’ve been in years. Whatever purpose her death might have had...she’s pretty sure it’s already done its job. She _knows_ she saw that orange light. She knows they got the soulstone. _Knows_ she died only to live one more bloody, exhausting time. 

How many times is this now? Waking up as a ghost haunting the graveyard of her fallen comrades is far too familiar a feeling. The Red Room. SHIELD. The Civil War. Thanos’s victory. 

Killing a ghost just seems so...pointless. 

Like something that takes time and effort only to satisfy foolish spite. Absent minded self-destruction at it’s finest. 

...and she’s never allowed herself to engage in self-destruction. 

(Natalia, you must look. See the fate of those too weak to serve the Motherland. She broke and tried to escape through death. You will not. You are marble.) 

(Katya’s scream fills the night as a whip cracks across a bleeding back. Gunshots cut off the sobbing shortly after.) 

So, as much as it agonizes her, Natasha reaches into the pouch at her waist and instead of pulling out a gun, she pulls out an energy bar. One of those highly compressed nutritionally dense food shaped objects cap swears by. If she’s not going to give up here, she needs to eat. Super-healing might have saved her, but it needs calories, needs fuel to keep her going. 

It tastes like ash and blood, but she forces it down, just like she always does. 

Ghosts can still be useful, maybe, possibly. There’s enough chance to try anyway. 

Then she drifts, drifts, drifts off in a haze of pain and exhaustion. It’s nice. If she’s not awake she doesn’t have to deal with her burning brain. 

(Does she even deserve sweet oblivion?) 

She has no idea how long she waits in that dark, swirling wasteland. Hours, weeks, months. All she knows is that the next time she wakes it's to a strange shuddering feeling passing through the air. Her eyes snap open catching spots of orange, red and black. 

“So, you are alive even so.” A sibilant voice hisses from above her. 

Natasha startles, cursing the stiffness of her body as her gaze lands upon the wraith of the fucking red skull standing over her. His eyes are cold and disconnected. Uncaring about her plight even as she bares her bloody teeth at him. 

“I am marble. As if a fall like that could break me.” The widow growls, defiant in the face of the stonekeeper. She has no idea if he’ll become hostile now that the stone has been removed. Part of her hopes for it. Hopes for him to be the swift, acceptable death she’s looking for. 

The other ragged parts of her bloody, broken heart refuse to give up, to give in, to show weakness. 

(Widows must never show weakness, Natalia. You are marble. You are the foundation on which the motherland grows. The spade that removes the weeds and lets the wheat grow. Never forget that.) 

Even if it’s more an automatic response than a conscious choice, her body still moves. Resolve still fills her. Trembling hands steady themselves through sheer force of will. Agonizing partially healed muscles scream as her arm slides down to her hip. A soft pop from her holster releasing and then she has the barrel of a pistol pointed at the bullshit fucking nazi ghost. Her finger tenses, ready to fire at a moment's notice. 

He sneers. Maybe a threat of retribution, maybe not. 

She fires anyway. 

The bullet vanishes through the still insubstantial ghost, doing no apparent damage. Her arm jostles painfully. As much as she wills it to hold on tight, her blood stained fingers are slippery in the chill air. A grunt of pain leaves her throat as the gun clatters to the ground beside her.

A deep, defeated breath leaves her lungs. 

Then Natasha sighs, assuring herself that she at least tried and lets herself lie back on the hard rock. 

“Such useless spite, clinging to life so viciously when it brings you nothing but pain. Pathetic.” The red skull eventually says, voice dripping with derision. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow and lets her gaze drift up and down the ugly tattered remnants of his dirty black cloak. The unhealthy pale red tone to his skin. The strange curve of his skinless brow, a remnant of stupidly using himself as a fucking guinea pig. The spy scoffs softly. 

Her incredulity and disgust at his hypocrisy must shine through, because he growls back furiously. 

“Even as your comrades abandon you, you still stick to your foolish pride.” He says, sneering with renewed fervor. 

“Abandoned?” A hoarse, _wrecked_ voice croaks out. 

Hers. 

Fuck. 

Should have just stayed silent. Not given the hydra nazi _fuck_ the pleasure. 

“Your plan appears to have succeeded. The good captain just returned the stone, trapping me here once more, powerless.” The red skull growls out, clenching his fist into the dark flaps of his robe. 

Relief swells in her chest. It worked. They were victorious. Good. 

One more reason for the forgotten ghost to rest easy. 

Then, the sadistic asshole’s gaze narrows and focuses back in on the fallen spy. 

“Of course, he took one look at your body from the top of the cliff and decided there was nothing he could do. He left you here while he went haring off to return the rest of the stones. Truly a grand example of the righteousness of Captain _America._ He really never leaves a comrade behind.” The spiteful ghost spat derisively. 

Which, well. 

(god, it hurts) 

It’s okay. 

It’s what she expected and hoped so very hard for. 

It’s okay. 

(Left behind once more, just a ghost, just a ghost, red, red, red on her hands, fire in her brain, why did she trust yet again, why god no, why) 

She smiles. 

It’s a brittle, bloody thing, but it’s there. 

Natasha takes a deep breath and firmly ignores the continued disgusted huffing of the other ghost. Using every ounce of calmness, dogged determination and pain processing she’s trained herself into, she takes stock. 

It’s not pretty. 

She’s abandoned alone on an alien planet, years in the past. Little food. Little ammunition. The winter weather makes hypothermia a real possibility. No possibility of backup or resupply. 

Some exploratory wiggling and poking leads her to conclude at least a few of her ribs are cracked if not broken, along with most of her right leg. The headache probably indicates some amount of whiplash. A concussion is highly likely, but she can’t really think of the possibility for brain bleeds. Unknown but possibly severe internal organ damage. 

(Well, she could be dead. That’s something at least.) 

Still, whatever ‘knock-off’ serum she was given has done a lot. It looks like any cuts or abrasions have already closed in however long she was passed out. While she'd still like to wrap her ribs up, they feel like they’ve actually already started to heal quite well. She knows it’ll probably still take a few weeks to regain full mobility, but compared to the months mere mortals need, she’ll take it. She can make it if she’ll probably be just fine if she has a few weeks of food and rest. 

(Not that she’ll get it.) 

Experimentally, she tries to drag her torso up into a sitting position. 

It hurts. 

A lot. 

She still does it though. Leaving yourself prone and helpless in enemy territory is unacceptable. 

Likewise, she shoves another protein dense energy bar into her mouth to settle her curling stomach. It still tastes like ash, but it’s better than starving. 

For now at least. 

As much as the serum will probably let her just muscle through her injuries and the biting cold, if she starves she’s actually finished. Especially since she needs two to three times the normal amount of food to keep that super healing going. Natasha only has maybe another day or two of food, given the long, empty sightlines, it won’t be enough to find any sort of civilization. 

(Maybe the bullet would be kinder, but then again, she doesn’t deserve kindness.) 

Then she sees it, the orange at the corner of her vision that woke her up. A shimmering, sparking circle cutting through the space in front of her. Just a few meters away. So close she can already taste it. Hope, freedom, _life_ all await her. 

After all, there’s a city on the other side. Smoggy skies, tall glass skyscrapers. Billboards that read in fucking _English_ unless she’s very fucking mistaken. If she squints she realizes it’s probably San Francisco, except not. The closer she looks the more she realizes it’s so close but wrong, wrong wrong. There are some buildings, entirely missing and other buildings that she’s never seen before. Almost like a crazy backwards mirror universe. 

She shouldn’t go through the portal. Some deep instinct inside of her is afraid if she does, she’ll never be able to get back. Everyone she knows, everyone she loves will be gone forever. She knows on a bone deep level that if she goes through it, there is literally no chance of ever getting back to them, scarce though it may currently be. 

(Who would even care if she disappears anyway?) 

Still, what else are her options really? 

(She’s already a ghost. Who cares what graveyard she chooses to haunt.) 

“Ahh, the fallout ripples through the universe.” The nazi ghost prick gripes from above her. 

Natasha glances at him and quirks a barely interested eyebrow. 

(What choice does she have but to go through it.) 

“The usage of the full infinity gauntlet sends the stones energy spiraling through time and space. These rips to other dimensions, worlds and places are the inevitable outcome. Chaotic and unplanned, only a fool would go through to who knows where. They’ll close in a few minutes either way.” The stonekeeper growls derisively. 

Natasha sighs, breathing deeply. Thinks, plans, wonders. 

(Supplies low. Likelihood of rescue non-existent. Chance of finding other planetary life is reasonable, but likelihood of hostilities is unknown. Chances that life will have a way off the planet also low.) 

(Chance of survival on planet - less than a tenth of 1%) 

(Unknown risks of going through an unknown type of portal. Unknown planet with unknown resources. Air could be poisonous. Locals could be hostile. The Nazi’s could have won the war. Unknown, unknown, unknown.) 

(Chance of survival - unknown) 

“Well then, I’m a fool.” The ghost says as she drags herself to her feet. Her feet drag and calling her walk a limp is generous. Still, somehow, someway, through gritted teeth she moves _forward._

The portal gutters and shudders as it starts to close. The ghost curses the gods that clearly want to torment her, shuffling forward as fast as she can. 

The portal continues to close. 

The ghost curses and throws herself forward. 

The portal closes. 

A slice of boot sole falls to the ground, cut on an atomic level by the collapsing singularity. 

“Disgusting worm.” A voice sneers 

Cold wind whistles on the barren cliffs of Vormir. 


	2. The Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day of Alex Danvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life of Alex Danvers. 
> 
> The sun is shining. Birds are Chirping. Life is good. 
> 
> (Portals are opening all across the city spitting out fucking shapeshifting flaming asshole alien assassins and it sucks)

Alexandra Danvers, decorated agent of the Department of Extranormal Operations was going to have a perfectly zen, perfectly nice day. Truly nothing could sink her mood. Of this, she was certain. 

The weather was nice. Birds were chirping on the way to work. Her morning coffee was ripping hot and bitter enough to punch her tongue into a pile of mush (just like she liked it). National City was, for once, blissfully quiet and peaceful. There hadn’t been even so much as a peep of an unruly alien, mad inventor or ornery crime syndicate for _weeks._ Thank god that after her fucking sister nearly fucking killed herself to stop the myriad, they got a chance to breathe. The DEO agent really didn’t need the stress of constantly watching her sister throw herself in front of buses to save an often less than grateful public. 

Though, she knew how important it was to Kara and would never tell her to stop. 

(At least anymore)

Yes. Truly perfect times in National City were here to stay. 

(They weren’t)

It started harmlessly enough. 

Even since Barry had popped his way through to National City from a parallel earth, the DEO had paid special attention to monitoring for dimensional rifts. Whole suites of sensors manned by a few new hires were set up to sweep the city for any disturbances. They’d only had one or two cross-overs since then, all of which were peaceful, thank fuck. Only, today of all fucking random shitfuck days in an otherwise peaceful summer, all hell seemed to be let loose. 

Almost half a dozen rifts in less than a fucking hour. 

So, of course the DEO scrambles it’s units to lay out the welcome wagon. Which, of course involves agent Danvers running all over the city like a chicken with its head cut off. Racing to lay out the welcome wagon to the new arrivals, since most were just confused to have fallen through strange orange cracks in reality. Such is the lamentable fate of the response team squad leader on shift at such times. 

Which, you know, is totally fine. It’d be a stressful day or work, but she’s totally used to that. 

Only, as luck would fucking have it, one of the last rifts let out some sort of giant intelligent two headed ice-lizard-dog thing that was _not_ happy to be under the sweltering California summer sky. Which would be fine, but could it _please_ not collapse a fucking wall on a fucking ice cream parlor to try and cool off? 

Fuck. Kara even zipped over from Catco to scold it for being a bad boy after the Catco chopper caught a live feed of what was happening. Something which said demon lizard-dog thing apparently responded to, since they started conversing in a strange clicky language before it visibly relaxed. Apparently, it was some sort of semi-sentient domestic pet animal from a planet Kara had briefly visited on vacation with her kryptonian parents called Talos 4. She even ended up hugging and petting it’s dark blue furred head (which, Alex might add, was filled with razor sharp, foot long _fangs_ ) before whistling and guiding it on a leisurely stroll back to the portal to it’s home world. 

Kara named him Herbet, and assured Alex that he was now her friend, very sorry for the damage and the goodest boy. Kara even wondered aloud if she might get Barry to set up a portal so she could bring him back sometime later for playtime and walkies and can she keep him Alex, please, pretty pretty please?!

(Some yahoo with a phone caught the exchange on camera. It went viral and broke the internet for an hour. Kara’s puppy dog eyes are _lethal._ ) 

There are times when Alex freshly realizes that despite her girl-next-door blonde appearance, Kara is well and truly an alien being. 

(And that clueless alien adorableness aside Kara is objectively _terrifying_ )

Which, okay. All of this added up to be an incredibly stressful morning. Still, at least nobody was hurt, killed or otherwise maimed. The damage was also relatively easy to contain. They just needed to confer with a couple of the nearby onlooking police to make sure the paperwork was all done and to make sure the damages were all charged to the right account. It’s all good right? 

Well, then she met one cute latina detective named Maggie Sawyer as her contact with the NCPD.

-and said her soul words. 

(Okay, so apparently she’s at least bi. That’s new. Well, maybe not new. She did after all have that thing with Vicki in freshman year, but she couldn’t really be gay, could she? They were just friends right? Maybe a bit touchy feely, and they did practice kissing together once, but don’t friends do that? It was just practice. She’s dated men in the past too, right? Even if sex had never seemed really appealing or anything, it was...fine I guess? That counts as liking men right?)

Which, y’know, could have gone better. Alex may not be much of a squishy romantic, but she’d always looked forward to meeting her soulmate. She wasn’t naive enough to assume it was going to be perfect, but...she did hope, at least a bit. There were plenty of examples and statistics for unhealthy soulmate relationships. Still the science was pretty clear: rates of divorce were lower, while health and happiness of relationships were significantly higher in soulmate-soulmate relationships. They weren’t perfect, but they weren’t random either. That had to count for something, right? 

“Sorry Danvers, I don’t date girls just out of the closet.”

(Fuck, why does dating never work for her, is she always going to be alone?)

So yeah, despite it being literally the last item on her list of things she wanted to do that afternoon, chasing after the last few remaining rifts was a needed distraction. It was going...more or less fine until the bane of her goddamn existence popped out through the last rift of the day in the warehouse district. 

Whatever they expected the alien to be, a pretty redheaded lady in a sinfully tight black catsuit was _not_ it. Which, y’know, didn’t help with not thinking about the whole, ‘repressed lesbian feelings’ _thing._ Still, the woman was covered in blood, and even a cursory glance over showed off what was almost certainly a broken leg. Feeling a pang in her heart at how _frail_ she looked Alex and her squad walked over to provide medical support. 

...which apparently was a mistake? 

The second Alex’s hand touched her shoulder, the woman’s piercing green eyes shot open. Then it got a little...fuzzy? 

A shout, a black clad form leaping to her feet with the softest grunt of pain. 

Requests to halt, that they come in peace going ignored. 

Spinning, impossibly fast fists poking holes in their defenses, like they weren’t even moving. 

The strange black bracelets on the woman’s hands glowing blue, some sort of energy weapon mayb-

A taser, a goddamn taser, slamming into her chest. 

Pain, so much pain. Spasms in her muscles, a cry on her lips. Years old dust on the floor in her goddamn mouth.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

So, that’s the story of how an injured pretty slip of an alien left Alex’s entire squad drooling in the dirt of the floor of an abandoned warehouse. Thank fuck whoever it was set the phasers to stun instead of kill. They’d live to regret that. Alex would make sure of it. _Personally._

All they needed to do was find the fucking alien, spray her with tranquilizer darts and question her about her intentions in the city. 

...which after about 5 hours of combing the city, tracking her through alleys, side streets and cameras turned out to be utterly fucking _impossible._ The fucker even had a moment where she took time out of her desperate escape to look Alex straight in the eye, smile, and then flip her off before disappearing around an alley corner. They’d all scrambled out of the transport to run after her and she was just...gone. Not a trace or scuff to show where she’d gone. Nothing on cameras in any direction. No reports of chaos or destruction anywhere. Just gone. 

Like fucking mist in the night. 

Alex’s current working theory is that they’re dealing with some sort of shapeshifting alien assassin. Possibly with enhanced speed and strength. Which is a very terrible, no good, very bad thing to be dealing with. Non and the Kryptonians were bad enough. If they could fucking _shapeshift_ as well? If they took contract kills? 

Fuck. 

So, despite being rejected by her bloody soulmate and having the longest, most awful day of work, Alex is still in the lab at 9pm. On sister night even. Which sucks, but she _really_ doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now, but Kara will understand. Her computer is, of course, blasting some very crunchy screamo that Kara would _not_ approve of. Too bad though. She feels like if even a single thing more goes wrong today she’s liable to snap the head off some newbie agent or something. Better to get some of that aggression out through music than anything else. 

Of course, the blood work she’s doing on the samples from their shapeshifting assassin slash giant flaming asshole alien aren’t really helping her calm down any. They just don’t make _sense._ Like, they look almost...human. Which I mean, maybe, but they also don’t really look human? Like there’s something just subtly off about them. She’s still going with the shapeshifting alien theory in her head. Maybe their ability is so convincing it actually mimics the DNA on some level? That would be...incredible, bullshit, amazing, impossible, but like the proof is kinda already in front of her? However impossible, must be the truth and all that. 

Whoever it was that set an entire highly trained DEO squad on their ass with nothing but her fists while having a broken leg was _not_ human. Couldn’t be. 

No way. 

Plus, the more she plays with the sample (and there is a lot of it, the asshole apparently has a lot of blood to lose) the more strange it becomes. The blood clots at different rates than normal. Has strange levels of all sorts of different minerals and hormones. The cells take in oxygen vastly more efficiently than normal. Everything is just, doing what humans do but different and sort-of better? Strangely enough, some of the hormone levels bear some similarities to an older woman going through menopause, which makes _no_ sense. Their shapeshifting alien assassin couldn’t have been a day over 25, if that. 

Fuck. 

They need to know what they’re dealing with, this going around in circles is _not_ helping.

So, of course, the world hates Alex, so one more thing happens that day. 

“Alllleeeeex, where are you, I need to talk to you? Alex! Alex! Oh there you are. ” Kara’s far too _chipper_ and excited voice squeaks at her from down the hallway. A second later a blue blur whirrs past and Alex’s only link to sanity cuts off. 

(Fuck, she liked that music. Can’t the universe just give her this evening to mope? Don’t stab Kara with a pipette. Don’t stab Kara with a pipette. Don’t stab Kara with a pipette.)

“Yes?” Alex says gruffly, not looking up from the stupid, incomprehensible sample of shapeshifting _asshole_ dna. Her fingers palm a pipette just to have something to fiddle with. It’s not great lab practice, but hey, she needs something to distract herself. 

“Guess what, guess what?” Kara chirps happily, beaming in that adorable happy puppy way she does that makes Alex unable to deny her anything. 

Alex grumbles something unintelligible. If she just ignores the puppy long enough, it’ll go away. 

Right? 

(No.)

“I met one of my soulmates today! She’s so pretty and cute, and she cares so very, very much about doing good and I’m so, so happy!” Kara squeals, unperturbed by her sister's grumpy silence. 

Alex blinks once, then twice. 

Well. It’s maybe not the best day for it, but at least something _good_ happened today. Even in the pits of the worst day ever, she’s happy that her sister is at least finding happiness somewhere. Kara deserves it so much after lifetime of such loneliness and _loss._ She’s been quiet ever since Astra died. Alex has spent more than a night since worrying about how much of Kara’s decision to personally push myriad into space was necessity or self-destruction.

Surely a soulmate can only help right?

(Don’t think about Maggie. Don’t think about Maggie. Don’t think about Maggie.) 

“Who is it?” She manages to get out over a stone in her throat, trying not to think about the _witch._

(Pretty brown eyes. Cute dimples. A shit eating grin, so full of life and happiness. God, she was so pretty.)

“Lena Luthor! Clarke had me shadow him as we went to interview her about the explosion on the Venture while you were busy with all the portals. It wasn’t really the best timing to talk so we're going to get coffee and chat on Friday!” Kara squeaks, blushing. 

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

“Please tell me you didn’t tell Lena goddamn Luthor who you are?” The DEO agent says, groaning as her soul slowly starts to leave her body. 

“Aleeeeex, don’t be silly, that’s more of a third date conversation right?”

(The pipette snaps in Alex’s hand. She needs 3 stitches.)

This is really the worst day. 

(Though, Kara does end up dragging Alex to her apartment after. They get too much pizza and chat till late in the night. Alex tells Kara about Maggie. They cry. They hug. They make a plan. It ends up being a pretty alright evening anyways.)


	3. Again and Again and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starting again in a strange universe sucks. 
> 
> (Well, at least people still use flash player in the past. That makes things easier.)

Surviving alone in a strange city with strange people was far from an unfamiliar experience. 

Nor was running from shadowy black ops units trying to disappear her. 

(Cold, so cold. Must stop. Can’t Stop. The dogs are barking, the dogs are barking. Failure is death, failure is death. Widows are marble.)

What was unfamiliar to Natasha was how...easy it was turning out to be this time. Sure the time travel bullshit may have gotten her stuck alone in the past on an alternate earth in the first place, but the storm clouds did have a few silver linings. 

Of course the balmy California sky was a big one. Compared to all the training exercises on the frozen Russian tundra, this was practically a beachside vacation. Plus, the gigantic crowds of the heavily populated urban areas were an absolute _blessing._ A few expert ducks through alleys and crowds were enough to let her slip onto the roof of a passing bus and get a few blocks away. 

Then with a bare half hour’s head start on the black ops group following her, she set about truly disappearing. All she needed was a quick couple passes through retail stores to gather supplies with a five finger discount or ten. Then she rushed through a quick cleanup and change in a public bathroom, put on a pair of non-prescription glasses and tied her hair up in a tight unflattering librarian bun. Determination filled her as she came out to the mirror and stared into aching, exhausted green eyes. It took a deep breath to settle her nerves and ground herself not to react to the pain in her dragging broken leg as she set out to face the day once more. 

Natasha Alianova Romanova, master spy and Black Widow was dead. All that was left was a ghost haunting the streets of a strange city. 

No, from the moment the ghost left the bathroom, every ounce of body language, personality and appearance belonged to one Lauren Francis Barton. Lauren was a shy but kind girl. Naive and sheltered but well meaning and kind. She was new to the big city having grown up in the country on a small farm with her Mom and Dad. While she was away at a small college a terrible fire had claimed their lives. Now graduated and trying to make her own way in the world, the small-town girl came to the big city to find her way. Feeling listless, Lauren knew she had to find a purpose to keep on moving and living now that she’d lost everything. 

Well. The best lies had elements of truth in them after all. 

Natasha was the one being chased and hunted like a dog. Natasha was the one who ducked around alley’s and hid from the authorities. Lauren on the other hand, walked tentatively out onto the street. Curious and nervous and so overwhelmed by all the new sights and sounds. Essentially still a tourist, she had her phone out taking the odd photo and clicking away to message her presumed friends. A brief smile lit up her face as she walked past a particularly nice looking restaurant that she was now considering for her first dinner in the city. 

Of course, alone in the world and without hunters after her, Lauren had all the time in the world. Her shoulders were relaxed and her pace unhurried. Her gait barely changed as an annoyed redhead in combat fatigues brushed her aside in her search for Natasha. They even shared a brief moment of eye contact and a warm smile. Lauren maintained an expert amount of distance that was neither too close to allow identification nor suspiciously far. The redhead’s gaze narrowed for a second, before huffing and hurrying away. Lauren grinned and sauntered in the other direction.

This left the ghost squarely in the already covered portion of the hunting team’s search pattern. It would likely be hours before they finished their full search grid and doubled back, if ever. All of which left the ghost free to explore and find a place to hole up in and recover. Well, as long as she avoids the street cameras that is. Luckily they were much less ubiquitous in the past than she was used to, so it was practically a snore.

Honestly she felt kinda bad. She’s sure the team after her was reasonably well intentioned, but she lashed out while she was having a brief PTSD induced flashback. The more she thinks about it, the more she’s certain the agents were actually trying to render medical care rather than arrest her. She wasn’t really in her right mind fresh out of the portal, so exhausted and in so very much pain. 

(In her ribs, in her legs, in her shattered soul.)

Natasha never had much positive association with strange figures in black combat fatigues surprising her with hands on her shoulders. She reacted. Sue her if she very rationally assumed she was under attack or threat of capture. They were potential threats. Threats must be eliminated. Even a moment's hesitation or fear would have killed her in innumerable other situations over her long years of spycraft. Frankly the team should just count their lucky stars that half way through the beat down she regained enough awareness to realize they weren’t trying to actually kill her. To realize it was only a potential threat she needed to disable instead of an actual one she needed to _break._

Oops.

(No use crying over spilled milk.)

The second benefit of this whole situation only became clear a little later. The shadowy government agency chasing after her was threatening, but as she came to learn, was probably more SHIELD serve and protect than Hydra dominate and subjugate. While Lauren couldn’t really leave the shitty motel room she’d eventually commandeered to recover in (allegedly from a skiing accident over the long weekend) for the first couple weeks, she did have a lot of time to watch the news. Even just cursory information gathering found the cute and easily flustered redhead agent also worked extensively with Supergirl. From all appearances the partnership was close, positive and healthy. 

Which made it much less likely whatever agency was after her was looking to exterminate undesirables or other suitably Hydra bullshit. The ghost gives herself solid odds that if she keeps her head down and doesn’t start knocking off any dignitaries, they’ll probably assume she’s here in peace and let the trail go cold in a couple weeks. 

(Still not impossible though. Still a threat. Observe and maybe destroy if needed.)

However, the biggest advantage became clear a few days later when Lauren popped out to replace her laptop as a graduation present for herself. 

The technology. Or lack thereof. 

So. Many. Computer Vulnerabilities.

Seriously, hacking was like shooting fish in a fucking barrel. In her past life, she’d always been a very competent hacker. You never know when you need to get into a camera or past a lock after all. Espionage and infiltration are great and all, but they were always risky. If possible she always tried to get the intel she was after electronically first. Natasha and Tony had been regulars at different hacker conventions. Hell, social engineering and phishing for database access was an essential tool for the budding spy. 

The thing was though, hacking was almost by definition a race against time. The more you exploited any vulnerability, the quicker the security community might catch on and patch the affected systems. As her research to become familiar with this new world, universe and city progressed, it became clear that the technology was eerily similar. It wasn’t identical of course, and there were certainly programs here that just didn’t exist back there, but the broad strokes were all the same. Many of the biggest players also carried over. 

Which meant the way her super-serum enhanced memory retained basically every long standing unaddressed bug or entry point into every main electronic system known to man was practically a golden skeleton key. Hell, over 60% of the internet still used fucking _flash player._ Including fucking government employees like that bored clerk at the DMV watching cat gifs, or the horny intern at the census office glancing at porn after hours. 

_Fucking **flash** player._

Christ, they were basically asking her to take full remote control over their systems. It was like steering a canoe through the goddamn Suez canal. What. The. Fuck. 

So, yeah, Lauren’s approximately three week long convalescence in a motel of ill-repute also involved a fair amount of innocuous hacking. Inserting birth certificates. Getting a driver’s license. Creating a family history. Diverting and laundering a hundred thousand dollars or so from some skeevy coked out investment bankers slush fund to serve as her ‘inheritance.’ Generating a degree and some professional history for herself. Making up some instructor references and writing a brief, ahead of it’s time voice alteration program so it wouldn’t be obvious it was her picking up the phone when they were checked. 

You know, the basics. 

(Girl’s gotta have a hobby.)

Natasha never did well with idleness. It’s why she always _hated_ recovering in medical. Too long sitting on her ass meant time for the blood on her hands to itch. Meant time for the lightning in her brain to catch up to her. Meant time to fall into a pool of guilt too deep and sticky to climb back out of.

(Meant time to start fingering the knives on her belt, or the gun on her hip. Not urgently. Just...consideringly. What would it take? Who would care? What happens after?)

Lauren, despite being a ghost haunting a strange foreign world is the same. After all, she would only have survived if the Universe had some other unfinished task for her right? She wants to, no, needs to find what it is. To find her purpose. God clearly hates her. Life can’t just be random. Things have to have happened for a reason. Her life and losses must have been somehow necessary. Must still be necessary for this new world. There has to be a reason, a way for her to find redemption. 

(She can’t think of the possibility that it's all random. That the universe is just cold and random. It’s true but she’ll shatter if she lets herself think about it. This time there’s no Clint left to pick up the pieces. If she lets herself break she’ll just stay broken.)

About a month goes by before she’s feeling like only a quarter dead on her feet. Of course, running on a broken leg to escape shadowy black ops organizations most _definitely_ put her recovery back a step or five. Still, by the end of her first month in National City, the leg and ribs have successfully fused. They might still be quite sore and tender, but she’s not dead due to internal bleeding. Nor is she experiencing long term nerve damage or loss of mobility like she probably should be. Hell, after a week or two of light exercise and good food in her motel room, she hasn’t even lost that much muscle tone. 

Huh. Super-serum definitely has its perks. 

Now though, she’s bored, tired and definitely wearing out her stomach for dirty, mildly roach infested housing. She could easily just hack her way towards a livable income. Maybe blackmail a few millionaires. Maybe place a few bets at a bookie that (apparently Steve’s obsession with baseball rubbed off on her) she knows she’s going to win. Maybe use some of those ill-gotten gains to buy herself a tidy little condominium (or three, her skin itches from the lack of acceptable safehouses). Something about that rubs her the wrong way though. 

She doesn’t _need_ to work. She doesn’t _need_ to fight. She did her time, did her duty, gave her all. In her more rational, less morose moments she knows Clint and Laura wouldn’t fault her for resting. For retiring now that she all but gave her life for the cause. In her other moments though, her supposed sacrifice and redemption feels hollow, empty and undeserving. Her hands itch to do _something_ to be **someone.**

She knows it’s not a good idea for her to get back in the game. 

To fight. 

(-and maybe find that challenge that finally overcomes her. That Lets her rest, lets her die without feeling like a failure. She wants it so bad it _hurts_ but she shouldn’t let herself have it.) 

Lauren, like Natasha can barely stand the idleness. She feels the walls crawling around her. Judging her. Telling her she’s not enough. 

Fuck. 

She needs something to do with herself. 

She needs a job.

(and maybe an apartment that doesn’t smell like rat piss and desperation.)


	4. Same Old Dog, Same Old Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha tries to live a normal civilian life.
> 
> It does not go well.

Some things are easier said than done. 

Get a job. 

Start over. 

Find a purpose.

Stay out of the game. 

(Keep the self-destructive urge to throw herself in front of a bullet at bay.)

Learn some new tricks to live a normal civilian life. 

Find an apartment.

Build a life. 

(Grow as a person. Make Laura and Clint proud.)

Yeah. 

Natasha never really expected to be any good at any of those self-assigned tasks. Still, some part of the now former spy hopes she’s doing all right in her new National City life. Despite the way this surreal alternate earth seems to practically spit out marauding alien threats on a weekly basis, she’s managed to keep her head down for a solid couple months now. While it was tough feeling her fingers twitch for a weapon as the news blared and sirens roared a few blocks away...it’s gotten easier. 

Well, at least to the extent that her paranoia is back to a nice constant simmer instead of blaring panic at the first sound of an urgent news alert. It’s the sort of low level adrenaline that's endemic to long term infiltration missions rather than constant combat. She’s not _really_ in danger. She doesn’t _really_ need to gear up and get to the quinjet. She just feels like she is. Natasha’s living a perfectly safe, reasonable civilian life in a major bustling city. 

Simple. 

(Though her old avengers communicator is always at the bottom of her purse, and a collection of well oiled guns or knives are always hidden on her person. Some small irrational part of her insists that maybe somehow, someway, she’ll need to gear up to save the world.)

However, the whole finding a job and purpose thing...that she was less successful with. Not for lack of opportunities. No, The Black Widow would never do something so prosaic as _fail._ She could charm an audience with a single wide eyed smile. Could cram her way to vague bullshit confidence on most subjects with only a few days of notice. Then she could slip in for the kill to seal a successful interview with a deft ease many a recent grad would straight up _kill_ for.

No, the problem was actually working the jobs afterwards. 

Natasha had tremendous patience for bullshit. After all, she’d spent years smiling and nodding her way through interminable PR meetings when Tony or Steve were just too frustrated or impatient to do their damn jobs. 

The spy was also incredibly experienced resisting torture, interrogation and all manner of physical pain. Hell, the red room had trained her to resist (well, suppress, technically) emotional pain and trauma since she was practically in diapers. Throw her an impossible trolley problem, she won't think twice before finding a solution. Isolate her or demonize her and she’ll laugh in your face. Demean her or force her to do a humiliating task and she’ll grin and bear it with graceful aplomb. 

(What care does she have for the judgments of naive _fools._ Lives are on the line.)

Corporate America has nothing that can even approach breaking her. None of that’s the problem. 

No, the problem is the spy is just too damn _proud_ for her own good. 

It was one thing when the fate of the world hung in the balance. Natasha is nothing if not loyal. To her friends and allies, she’s an implacable, unstoppable force of protection. If it needs to happen to protect one of the few people who were _hers_ Natasha will damn well swallow any ounce of foolish pride she has. Endure any pain, commit any crime, fight any fight to make sure they came back home. Hell, SHIELD (well, Coulson primarily) had eventually managed the incredible feat of broadening her narrow sense of empathy to extend that protection to the general public. At least in a vague “duty to protect” sense anyway.

If every time she went into the field the blood on her hands felt a bit stickier, well at least it’s eased the burden on another one of her chosen people. She’ll pay that price. Any day, any time. 

(Widows are marble. They endure so the fertile grass of the motherland can grow.)

Cut loose from her handlers and any firm responsibility ordinarily trivial things just seem...exhausting. Biting her tongue and enduring is no longer about keeping people alive. No longer about protection, or infiltrating a terrorist cell, or even just maintaining team cohesion. It’s just about maintaining her silent promise to herself to live like a normal civilian. Nice, respectful, non confrontational and most of all... _respectable._ Forcing herself to care about the feelings of _fools_ has rapidly become an exhausting trial and Natasha is so very, very _very_ tired.

(She already gave her life so these fools could live! What more could they want? She shoveled their shit and now they want her to eat it? Fuck them. Fuck them! Fuck them to hell and back!!!)

Her first try at a purpose is to get a secretarial job at a small supposedly progressive law firm in the business district. That lasts all of a week. After all the slimey trust fund baby that has the nerve to call himself her boss reveals himself as a truly loathsome human being. The wandering eyes, touchy hands and smarmy grin are bad enough to make her consider breaking her decades long murder-free streak by the end of the first week. Even so, she endures patiently. By the second she manages to just barely stop him after he cornered one of the younger interns in the washroom at the weekly office mandatory pub night. Which, fuck off, not okay. It’s a near thing that she doesn’t punch, stab or otherwise maim the rapist prick. 

She’ll have to settle for sending a few anonymous tips, video and other records of his embezzlement, drug and sexual assault habits to local law enforcement. Fucker’s going away for at least 10 years. 

Her probationary period at the job is abruptly cut short without explanation a few days later.

(Natasha can’t say she regrets it.)

So, alright then, maybe corporate America just isn’t for her. Natasha thinks of other things she enjoys for a few days before it comes to her. 

Cooking!

She likes cooking. Was always happy to volunteer back when they were all at the tower. While her primary coping method with emotional trauma is fierce suppression...late night cooking sprees were also helpful. The soothing sounds of a knife slicing through not-innocent flesh always helped lull her into a nice rhythm. As did the lovely sounds and smells of slow simmering sauces and soups. Or even the nice whir of a whisk or stand-mixer on low. She often found it quite meditative. Especially when she could focus on something delicate, meticulous and labor intensive to take her mind off things.

(Tony only laughed once the first time an artfully decorated multi-tier wedding cake randomly showed up in the kitchen one morning after a tough mission. After all, it took weeks for his mysteriously shaved eyebrows to grow back.)

Finding a job in a bakery was reasonably easy. 

(Though sexism was often evident in the way the head chef took one look at her tits and scoffed at her ability. She showed them wrong, even if she didn’t need their respect.)

No, the problem became actually getting into that relaxing focus that so attracted herself to baking in the first place. Instead of the soft sounds of herself shuffling around a kitchen at 3 in the morning, she was always buffeted by the shouts and noise of a professional workspace. Constantly banging pots at random intervals. Shouts from behind her with little to no warning. Knives flashing in the corner of her vision. Crashes and shouts of pain after minor accidents. Long rants berating the newer hires for minor mistakes. 

It. Was. Maddening. 

Fuck. Every day she almost stabbed at least 3 people. It was a miracle she kept managing to hold herself back at the last minute. Not helped at all by the way certain idiots eyes would linger while she was working. 

She ends up lasting about a week and a half before she quits. 

It’s not surprising she quits, but she’s actually surprised how smooth it goes. Apparently not _all_ of the testosterone addled staff were clueless idiots. In a surprising show of perceptiveness, one of them takes her aside as she’s packing up and tells her about his brother who just got back from Afghanistan. How he won’t ask but knows PTSD when he sees it, and commended her for prioritizing her health and sanity. Then he has the temerity to slap a card for a counseling center in her palm “just in case” and wish her goodbye. 

The spy is surprised to find herself both somewhat touched and annoyed.

(She’s slipping. Going soft. Letting the cover take over too much. She needs to get back to training. Be strong. Never break. Widows are marble.)

Not that she’ll ever actually go to such a thing. 

(What would she even say? So by the way I’m a traumatized time and dimension travelling assassin? Oh yeah, she _totally_ wants to be locked up in a maximum security mental health ward. _Great idea!_ )

She spends a few days wondering about starting her own cake decorating business or something. Then she realizes that would involve extensive interaction with the public as a service sector employee. 

No. 

Fuck no. 

(She’d stab someone in the first month, guaranteed.)

All of which, well, leaves her with fewer options to occupy her time than she’d like. The following Friday sees her trying to drink her weight in vodka and decide on another career to try. Part of her thinks about getting into the nonprofit sector or something. Maybe helping out at a dog shelter or something. She likes animals right? Better than humans at least? The thought of having to deal with the squealing kids begging their parents for puppies gives her pause though. 

She shudders. 

That would be _awful._

(Cross one more purpose off the list.)

Then she turns on the evening news. The anchors are outraged and shouting over each other. Yelling over...aliens again? Natasha sighs and despairs for the futility of humanity. The whole saga of the alien registration and citizenship act in this world feels like a reasonable first step, but also feels like the accords all over again. She’s kept her nose out of it, because she already knows what she’s going to find if she gets curious. Knows that if she gets curious she’s going to get invested. Knows that’s going to mean getting back into the game. 

(Knows that getting back in the game will mean giving herself an opportunity to let herself die.)

The powers that be never let a good crisis go to waste after all. She can guess that there’s at least one or two agencies already rounding up aliens to use for whatever nefarious purpose or other they care about this week. It’s what they do. Collar, leash and control power whenever they can. While in theory the act might give them more rights, in practice it also puts them on a giant list for anyone looking to give them the “recruit or else” speech. 

That’s not even to start talking about all the crazies and hate groups out there. The whole ongoing Luthor and CADMUS saga has been all over the news lately. With Lena Luthor seeming to break from the family hardline anti-alien stance, every new week the CEO seemed to get attacked by one crazy or other. Assassination attempts, terrorist attacks at parties, and now apparently turning her mother in for some crazy scheme to eradicate all aliens with some sort of ballistic missile.

Each new disaster gets blown up all pretty on the evening news. Stories of hate, tragedy and death for all the world to see and gawk at. As if it was all just some crazy tabloid breakup rather than an ongoing saga of the depths of human cruelty. Through it all, there was Lena Luthor, always seeming calm and composed. Teassuring the public that no, she was definitely not secretly behind the attacks. Yes, she was definitely turning over a new leaf. No, she was not just another Luthor. Yes she would remain in control of the company. She was trying to do better. To right the wrong her family had done the world. 

Sitting there, drunk off her ass (well, for the minute anyway, the super serum would flush it out of her system by the end of the hour. More's the pity.) Natasha was hit with the strangest pang of nostalgic _longing._ Something about the whole situation just...made her remember the good times before. 

Before the stone. Before Thanos. Before the civil war. Before Ultron. Before even the Avengers. 

A celebrity CEO, trying earnestly to do right by the world. Mocked and looked down on by all who didn’t believe their family could even consider something other than the bottom line. Smart as a whip and with a naive idealism that spoke of too much privilege and not enough honesty in their life. She’s not certain it’s quite the same situation. After all, It’s hard to really profile somebody through their media persona’s. Tony was always the same way. Open, smarmy public face, caring self sacrificing idiot on private face. 

Natasha wonders. 

Gets a truly crazy idea. 

She’s had plenty of experience with the whole working with a mad CEO inventor with a heart of gold before. Despite all the pomp and circumstance of working for Tony, it always felt like an honest day's work. Helping to save a life. Helping to make important things happen. Change the world for the better. Just...helping. 

...and all without getting more blood on her hands. 

She gets to googling and adjusting her CV. Surely a company undergoing such rapid drastic change has to be hiring somewhere right?

(She’s right.)

* * *

L-Corps newest legal secretary and assistant, one Lauren Francis Barton sighs at the end of a long week. It’s only to be expected. The first week on a job is almost always the hardest. There’s always new procedures and technologies to learn. Getting a feel for the coworkers always takes a while. It’s maybe a bit paranoid of her, but she doesn’t want to get caught with her pants down. So what if that means doing a bit of light research slash illegal hacking after hours to check their bonafides. She needs to get comfortable enough to sort of quarter trust her coworkers before she’ll even consider letting her guard down an inch. 

(So what if the odd leftover Lex loyalist or two gets an anonymous package listing their associated corporate malfeasance sent to HR.)

What a week to pick to start a new job. Apparently the ongoing trial of the century, Lillian Luthor V the United States has been heating up. It’s all the office has managed to talk about since she was hired. Half the lawyers are working overtime to help keep L-Corp’s nose clean and out of the scandal. The other half have just been glued to the laptop screens watching the proceedings just in case. Most of which have been nervously biting their fingers to the quick and demanding that Lauren fetch them more coffee. 

She doesn’t really blame them. They’re all worried and stressed. All desperately holding their breath to see if Lillian would get away with it. Or if, as they all secretly suspect, she’d lose. Having all followed the ongoing saga closely, most in the office guess that a loss in the case is going to lead to at least _some_ sort of retaliation. Given the spate of assassinations and bombings recently they’re all justiably worried. Chances are pretty good there will be violence. Some of them might even die. More than one lawyer went through the process of updating their wills over the last week. Just in case. 

What they don’t expect nearly as much is for the violence to start even before the trial. 

That’s unfortunately what happens. Lauren, as shit luck would have it, was the new hire drafted to stay late and prepare a truly heinous pile of documents for the trial the next week. She’d been just about to pack up and go home after a 9 hour shift when, at the last moment, a tired and overstressed lawyer in a cheap suit had dropped it on her desk. Feeling some sort of vague pity, she’d given in and agreed. 

(It’s not like she has anything waiting for her at home anyway. A bit of overtime will actually be helpful to keep her mind out of the dark corners it should stay away from.)

One by one the other worker bees gave in and left the office to seek the sweet release of sleep. In short order Lauren was absolutely alone in the empty and echoing office. All was blissfully silent aside from the whirr and hum of an overstressed photocopier and a bubbling kettle to prepare some tea. 

Then she heard it. 

A giant crash sounds from the floor just below her. Startled, Lauren hopped up out of her seat and ran to grab her bag. A few seconds later the crash is followed by the screech of metal. Alarmed and surprised, Lauren finds herself stupidly running towards the sounds of danger. Though, she does have her phone already open and 911 already dialed. After all, she’s just a civilian. There isn’t anything she can really do about whatever’s happening. Some part of her hates that thought however. 

The dial tone in her ear sounds. Too slow, too slow. Always too slow. 

“911 what’s you’re emergenc-” A harried voice sounds as Lauren bursts out of the stairwell.

The other side of the door exits to the outside of a high security lab on the fifth floor of the building. The windows are tinted, but the thick metal door has been crunched and bended off it’s hinges like a pretzel. Some part of her realizes it’s strange the no alarms have gone off. There’s all sorts of hazard signs around the room for radiation and caustic chemicals. This is the sort of room whose security is just _not_ supposed to sleep. Something is deeply, deeply wrong. 

She turns the corner and glances inside, see’s…

**Fuck.**

Does this universe have ultron too? 

“I’m an employee at L-Corp. There’s been a breakin on the fifth floor high-security radiation lab. Some sort of strange robot creature is ransacking the place. Send help right away!” She barks, cutting off the concerned voice of the 911 operator. 

The sound brings the attention of the robot...no, cyborg, spinning towards her. He has a strange green glowing rock in his hands that he rapidly sticks in his chest. The half flesh, half robot creature groans in pain and stumbles a second before a cruel smirk graces his face. He steps forward towards her, threat evident in his posture. One foot forward, then the other, then he _leaps._

Fast. Shit. He’s so fast. 

Lauren spins and runs. She’s just a civilian. Just a civilian. She isn’t trained for this. Can’t do anything, can’t fight back. It’s not her job, not her problem. She alerted the authorities, they can handle it. 

(She palms the hidden ceramic knife behind her belt. Just in case.)

A fist crunches into her chest. She feels pain as her breath leaves her lungs and her feet leave the ground. Her shoulders hit something hard. There’s a great cracking sound and then she bursts through the hard thing. Pain, so much pain. Fuck, not again. 

Then she’s falling. 

Panting. Panicking. Falling again. Her choice. Her fault. She needs to make up for it, needs to give her all to redeem herself. The soul stone. They need to get the soulstone. Nobody at home, nobody who cares. Her failure. Her choice. Her regret. Cold, pain, death. A vicious wind. A red-lipped sneer. 

(She’s going to die, she’s going to die. She’s not certain whether she should cheer or cry. Just one more damn failure in a laundry list.)

Then…

It stops. 

A pair of infinitely gentle strong arms wrap around her. The wind whipping through her hair slows. Gravity lifts it’s cruel grip on her form. Warm breath slides past her cheek, shocking her to her core. 

She leans in as feet gently touch ground. Where was she? Why is it so warm? Warm arms around her, warm chest in front of her. What’s going on? Who’s carrying her? Where are the howling winds of Vormir. Where is the pain, where is the sacrifice? 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you, don’t worry. Just let me take care of this real quick and I’ll be back.” A soft fluttery voice says as Natasha feels herself placed carefully on the pavement. 

Fuck. National City. Working after hours. The cyborg terrorist thing. 

Shit. 

The former spy takes a series of deep calming breaths. Tries to ground herself in the here and now. It takes a minute or two, but it does end up helping. At least until her brain really starts to catch up with her. Once it does it starts taking in the scene in front of her. Goddamn supergirl is fighting and throwing around the robot cyborg thing. The street is cracked and broken in front of her from where they’ve been fighting on the street in front of L-Corp. A sickly green mist has been spreading from the chest of the cyborg. Strangely enough, Supergirl does appear to be slowing down a bit, even taking a few hits and barely struggling to her feet. 

It’s...worrying. Especially as some strange blaring voice in the back of her skull is trying to alert her to something. Something strange, unexpected. Something on the tip of her tongue. 

Then Natasha’s eyes glance around, taking in the scene around the vicious fight. Civilians circle and gawk stupidly. Phones are out and recording. The sound of an incoming news chopper cuts through the air. Grimacing at the potential exposure, Natasha looks away for a moment and prepares to slip away in the confusion. Her eyes drag on her wrist, seeing her soul words on display. One set of which has somehow shifted from the drab black of an unfilled bond to a cool cerulean. Supposedly the colours of soulmarks shift to reflect something about the pair when they first meet. 

She blinks. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you, don’t worry. Just let me take care of this real quick and I’ll be back.”

Her brain connects the dots. 

No. 

Fuck. 

The spy’s gaze slips back to the ongoing fight. Supergirl is shaky, bruised and looking truly exhausted, but still fighting on. Her eyes burst into flickering lasers that scorch the robot arm of the cyborg. The robot grunts and retaliates with a series of vicious jabs that the blonde barely manages to block. Supergirl crumbles and slams into the wall of L-Corp behind him. He laughs sadistically and taunts her over some sort of perceived weakness. 

The blonde gets up anyway, despite the blood in her teeth and the limp in her step. 

Dear god. 

No. This isn’t happening. She’s a ghost. Already dead. Just haunting a graveyard and shuffling aimlessly. Ghosts don’t have soulmates. No. It’s not possible. Even if it was, there’s no way in the world Supergirl of all damn people could be her damn soulmate. The spy has too much blood on her hands to deserve what amounts to the personification of moral righteousness as the match to her soul. It’s all a dream. Just a vivid, crazy, hallucinatory dream. 

The cyborg punches Supergirl in the face. 

She falls. 

Natasha growls. 

(If it’s a dream she’s not going to let herself wake up screaming with regrets on her tongue. Not again.)

The Black Widow charges. 

The clack of her heels is drowned out by the desperate shouts and screaming from the civilians around her. Undeterred, her stride carries her forward. Without warning she’s leaping and curving gracefully through the air. Her thighs wrap around the cyborgs neck to the lovely sound of a surprised shout. Then she performs a quick acrobatic spin that has them both tumbling to the ground. 

Satisfaction fills her as the cyborg’s head crunches across the pavement while Natasha rolls and pops to her feet. She has an awkward half moment where her too tall heels nearly trip her up, so she kicks them off and gets into an easy fighting stance. Dimly, she’s aware the desperate action also knocked the glasses off her face and her hair out of it’s current tight bun. She can’t think about that though, nor can she think about the constant flashing of camera’s trying to capture the scene. Gearing up into a battle mindset, the widow reserves her entire focus on analysing this new opponent. 

Unsurprisingly, given that he was evidently durable enough to hold his own against goddamn supergirl, the cyborg doesn’t stay down long. It’s barely a second or two before he’s pushing his way to his feet. Carefully she circles around him, keeping an easy distance to feel him out. Gears grind visibly in his metal joints as he tenses to spring. In a start his fist flies at her like a rocket. The wind practically whistles and the ground behind him cracks as he shifts his weight. 

It’s fast. Holy shit is it fast.

-But predictable. Highly telegraphed and stiff. Clearly whoever created this monstrosity is still working out some of the kinks. It’s also possible that the damage sustained during the fight with Supergirl is impairing his mobility. Either way, the punches are straight and static. Robotic and without grace or creativity. All of it in the most basic of martial art styles taught by the american military. Laughably predictable. Laughably open to retaliation. Made for teaching grunts the basics rather than any actual serious fighting. 

Well prepared on a knife’s edge of tension and readiness, the widow neatly sidesteps the blow without concern. She steps forward into his reach and delivers a quick combo of punches to his chest. Her knuckles smart and he grunts, but is barely moved. Parts of him are fleshy, but most of him seems reinforced with at least some metal. He’s a tough son of a bitch, she’ll give him that. Cursing under her breath, she follows her attack up by spinning out of the way of his counter and slamming a roundhouse down on his temple once he’s overextended. 

The move push him into the dirt on his knees. Metal groans and the man has to take a few seconds to shake off the shock. Concussion is likely even if there is some sort of metal skull protecting the brain. The Black Widow doesn’t care. She won’t give rest or quarter to her enemies. Those that would take away what was _hers._ With a growl she has the ceramic blade from her belt in her palm and plunges it into the cracks of a joint on the creation’s now exposed metal shoulder. Gears squeal and groan. Circuits pop as power is cut off from the enhanced limb. 

The man screams painfully while the Black Widow grins triumphantly. 

This is right. This is familiar. This is the bloody purpose she was meant for. Fighting enemies like these is something she’s beyond practiced at. After Ultron, the team had done extensive drills for how to combat other mechanized threats. She knows how these sorts of machines and supports work. Knows exactly where the weaknesses are. Knows how to break one apart into little itty bitty pieces with nary a dash of effort. It may protect him from all but the most precise of strikes, but no cybernetic enhancement is without it’s weaknesses. Main power circuits. Joints. Gears.

She’ll find them. Utter precision of purpose and movement is what the Widows were created for after all. 

The cyborg pushes himself to his knees and then throws himself forward in a one armed tackle. It’s fast. The Widow barely has time to react. She leaps just high enough for his hair to breeze by her heels. Still, it’s enough that instead of plowing her over he instead smashes himself into the concrete wall of L-Corp behind her. In the confusion she reaches into her bag for another knife and stalks forward. The fool apparently couldn’t even slow himself down, so now his bloody head is actually _embedded_ in the concrete.

Concussion indeed. 

The cyborg is far from finished however. His flesh arm scrabbles on the concrete, quickly pushing him to free himself. He just needs a second to recover and then he’ll be on her again. 

(He won’t get it. The Widow knows no mercy.)

It’s the work of a second to slice the knife through his hamstring on the flesh leg. She ignores the resulting scream of agony to bury the knife into a joint on the back of his robotic knee. A horrendous screech of metal and the sound of smoke signals a short burning out the circuits to his calf. The cyborg screams once more but manages to push himself free of the wall. His legs quiver and fail to support his weight. 

He falls to her feet, three limbs disabled and a look of utter _hatred_ on his face. 

She smiles. The last remaining knife that was strapped to her thigh flashes to fingers. 

“Are you willing to come quietly, or will I have to bury this in your brain?” The Widow purrs, spinning the blade through her fingers to accentuate her point. 

“Fuck you.” The cyborg finally speaks, though he doesn’t make any move to push himself up to his feat or oppose her any further. The Widow stalks forward, grinning, feeling the urge for blood. To remove the threat. To _destroy_ the one that hurt what was _hers._

Natasha hears the frantic clicking of cameras arounds her. Breaths. Pauses her stride. Breaths again. 

He hasn’t made any further move. He’s prone on the ground, unable to move three limbs. The threat is gone. 

(-but not destroyed.)

“You’re not worth it.”

The spy turns on her heel. It hurts something in her soul, but she’s not going to be a murderer for nothing. She won’t break her promises to herself and those she cares about. She has standards. She won’t be that monster any mo-

-Heat, pain and smoke blasts across her back. The sick smell of burning flesh reaches her nose. Red laser light fills the side of her vision. She screams in agony and leaps to the side. Without thought her fingers flick out and hurls the blade in her hand. There’s a moment of dead time where all is pain, anger and regret. Her back crunches onto pavement and she reflexively closes her eyes. 

A moment later there’s a screech of metal on metal followed by a shocked grunt. It tapers off into a wet squelch and spurt of fluid. The heat stops. The pain remains but it’s less urgent now. Throbbing and awful, but no longer worsening. Slowly, painfully her eyes open to an alarmed cry above her. Gold. Hair like spun gold above her. 

She grins. Blood on her teeth and satisfaction in her gut. Warmth bubbles up inside her. 

(The threat is gone. What’s _hers_ is safe. She did good.)

“Run away from the bullshit green rock next time. Idiot.” Spills from bloodied lips. 

The spy faints from blood loss, missing the shocked squeal above her.


	5. The Second Very Long, Very Tiring, Very Bad Day of Alex Danvers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex: Can this day get worse?
> 
> Universe: Hold my beer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired, giggling and bored this morning. So yeah, have the results of the resulting writing binge.

Today is very much not Alexandra Danver’s idea of a “good one.”

Very much not so. 

It starts out, as many truly mind numbingly _awful_ day's do with a mound of paperwork up to the ceiling. After all, the trial of Lilian Luthor begins in less than a week. Since the DEO was instrumental in bringing down the genocidal terrorist bitch, they’re also forced to play a fucking star role in the gong show of a trial. Which, you know, is pretty bad since they’re supposed to be a bloody _covert_ organization. Of course, this isn’t the end of the world, it just means that they have to carefully prepare their reports, check their stories and make sure nothing _too_ classified gets leaked. 

Easy, right? 

Well, no. While J’onn has rapidly become the best spacedad she could ask for...he really _hates_ the human legal system. As one of the most senior remaining officers, she’s left to do all her paperwork and then use her overtime hours to help him write the innumerable carefully worded statements, speeches and prepare what evidence they can allow the public to know of. 

So yeah, fine, she’s working overtime and is bloody exhausted. No biggie. Part of the job. 

Of course the rub is that her and Maggie had managed to reconcile and have been dating for the last couple months. Even if she has to put her foot down with J’onn to take a break, she’s absolutely _not_ going to blow off their usual Friday night beer and gripe at the alien bar. It’s one of the only things keeping them sane in this madhouse they call a city after all. 

The universe, as has previously been established, _hates_ Alex Danvers with a burning passion. 

So, yeah, being increasingly tipsy on her way to drunk, exhausted and otherwise pissy is the _best_ time for a deep heart to heart with her soulmate about plans for the future. Great idea Alex. Really using your head there. 

They cry. 

They shout. 

They talk about marriage, kids, you know, the whole commitment shebang. Maggie gets cold feet. Alex gets snippy. It’s all a really great, really productive conversation. Much common ground is established. Many feelings are shared. No fights are picked just to avoid talking about the things they’d really rather not talk about. 

_**Not.**_

Predictably enough though, a shot or two later they’re able to actually _talk_ about their feelings and all that squishy junk. On closer inspection it’s less of a “complete emotional rejection of the idea of kids” and more of a “never thought about it and oh god I would ruin them like I ruin everything, maybe we should start with a dog instead?”

They cry and make up. They get another shot or two. 

They end up kissing and cuddling together browsing the humane society website. They see the most adorable dachshund pup that was abandoned by a puppy mill. They decide they’re going to go in and see her later on in the weekend. If she doesn’t already have a name, Maggie firmly decides it’s going to be Gertrude. 

Alex smiles, kisses her goof of a soulmate and agrees. 

(She’ll give this beautiful, vibrant, insane woman practically anything she wants. Even if the damn dog has to have a stupid name.)

Then, of course, the universe decides it needs to _shit_ on Alex yet again. 

See, apparently while Alex and her soulmate were wrenching their bleeding hearts out of their chests onto the floor, Kara was across town at L-Corp getting the shit beat out of her. Predictably the DEO is _incredibly_ late to arrive since most of the staff is off for the evening getting plastered in one watering hole or another. 

All of which leads up to a very much still tipsy and now motion sick Alex shoving on her uniform in the back of a cruiser. They speed through the city only to arrive as her sister is having her big dramatic “woe is me, my new soulmate is maybe dead” moment on National TV. Which of course she explicitly confirms by shouting about it to Alex as she sidles up pinching her forehead to wave off the incoming headache. 

The DEO agent _knows_ she’s going to have a migraine before the night is over. 

Especially when she realizes said soulmate is in fact the shapeshifting alien assassin they’d slowly stopped searching for due to a lack of leads. Who apparently saved Kara’s life and also maybe killed a man for Kara on live TV. 

“-but really Alex she didn’t want to, she’s a good person! I know it!”

Yeah. Kara has apparently empathized with the wounded bird slash sad puppy slash darling soulmate who is also a shapeshifting assassin. Which necessarily means said injured animal must be nursed back to health. 

(Dear god, it’s the family of feral _raccoon’s_ in her senior year all over again.)  
This of course makes Alex’s original plan of using _all_ the restraints to interrogate the fucking bitch the second she wakes up a non-starter. After all, that would make Kara sad enough to pull out the _eyes._ Alex **hates** the _eyes._ Especially when she’s already so drunk and schmoopy. 

Fan- **fucking** -tastic. 

So, yeah, they wait for the bullshit shapeshifting assassin to wake up patiently in an unsecured DEO medical room. Somewhere around 2am and her fourth cup of coffee those eyes flutter to reveal incredibly green painfilled eyes. Kara coos happily and goes for the hug, though a pained grunt does give her pause. 

Alex very much doesn’t mix the reflexive, barely halted twitch of fingers for a gun holster. 

Yep. Definitely an assassin. Definitely a shapeshifter. Definitely an alien.

Which, well, unfortunately when she gets this tired, Alexandra’s filter kindof cuts out, so she says it out loud. Which then has said bullshit alien assassin laughing. Of _course_ she’s apparently just a human that loooooves taunting Alex about her apparent need to git gud. Bitch is apparently also a troll. 

(Kara apparently loves them sarcastic and dangerous. Fuck. She does **not** want to think about the implications that has on her sister’s bedroom habits. She’s only a quarter drunk after all the coffee. That’s not nearly enough for that shit.)

This all leads up to Alex at least _trying_ to start some sort of debrief slash gentle interrogation slash exchange of intel. Which, predictably, goes nowhere. The shapeshifting assassin asshole is apparently also a consummate professional manipulator and able to talk circles around even the highly trained DEO agent. Every question is deflected deftly. Every response reveals the absolute bare minimum of information. Any hint she does drop is all couched in “hypotheticals” and “allegedly.” 

It’s maddening. 

Then Kara whips out the sad puppy eyes and pouts that the bloody assassin asshole bitch is being mean. Which, to Alex’s eternal surprise, apparently actually works. She can see the way the woman (now named Natasha) practically crumbles like a house of cards. When Alex shares a look and a wince with the woman she knows they’re in agreement. The sad puppy look really should be illegal. It’s practically a war crime. 

(Some part of her grins though. It’s clear that whatever moral relativism might be going on in the assassin’s head she’s utterly wrapped around Kara’s finger. Good. She probably has an ally for the whole ‘don’t let Kara get herself killed’ plan. It humanizes the strange totally believably human woman just a bit for the DEO agent.)

What follows however, is absolute bullshit on a scale Alex cannot even imagine, can barely even begin to process and absolutely **does not want to think about.** Apparently time travel exists along with the whole multiverse bullshit. Plus, supersoldier programs are a thing that exists and are also apparently effective, though Natasha is sparse on the details. Oh also, space is filled with genocidal bullshit aliens on a literally universal scale. Not to mention fucking _necromancy_ is possible and a thing the heroes of these alternate Earth’s **literally** practice. 

What. The. Fuck. 

(Alex whimpers internally thinking about all the paperwork. No. Dear god no. Why?!!!!!)

Then the DEO agent realizes the universe really must truly **loathe** Alex on a literally atomic level. 

After all, just as Alex’s hackles are again getting raised once more when she realizes the bitch is carefully editing out any of her own personal history (all, my team this, my world that. No I did X. or I did Y.) who would show up but Lena **sisterfucker** Luthor. 

Dear god why?!!!!

What follows is a histrionic screeching match. Of _course_ the Luthor had been watching the whole fight on TV. Of _course_ her and Kara had already gotten down and dirty enough to see each other’s soulmarks. Of _course_ she realized that Supergirl’s new soulmate said Kara’s remaining soulwords. Of _course_ this lets the cunt connect the dots between Kara and Supergirl. Of _course_ she somehow knows where to find the DEO despite having a bag on her head every time she’s left the building. Of _course_ she’s fucking **pissed** she wasn’t told about supergirl yet, even though Kara and Alex can definitely confirm they were planning to after the trial simmered down a bit and things weren’t quite so raw. 

Of bloody **course.**

This evening is going so _swell_ of course it has to throw another goddamn curveball into the mix. 

“-and you! Don’t think I didn’t see that lanyard around your neck at the start of the fight. What were you doing infiltrating my company?!” Lena jealously and stupidly decided to shout at the dangerous fucking assassin waiting patiently in their mist. Yeah, great fucking idea you idiot hothead CEO. Antagonize the assassin who killed a man over her Superhero soulmate already. Perfect plan. No flaws or faults whatsoever. 

Said assassin then replies with a brief widening of her eyes and a knowing smirk. 

“Well, you might be a genius, billionaire and a philanthropist, but at least you’re not a playboy.” The assassin fucking _purrs_ at Lena. 

This causes a pair of shocked and surprised squaks from Kara and Lena. Apparently it’s not the surprisingly common two soulmates, one platonic one romantic situation. No. The world _hates_ Alex. Of course it’s a goddamn poly trio of kinky sister **fuckerage.** A fact made _explicitly_ clear when Lena calms down and purrs back some bullshit about Natasha clearly missing her leather queer/kinky queen bitch phase in college. 

Nope. 

Nope. Nope.

**Nope nope nope nope nonononononoonononononononoononononononononoonononnono**

Kill it with fire. Get the brain bleach. All of the bleach.

Yeah. Fuck this shit. 

Alex refuses to deal with or acknowledge this. Stick a fork in her. She’s already done and overcooked. They’re already all making moon eyes at each other, even though Natasha is fucking drugged to the gills to cope with all the _literal_ fucking burn damage on her back and arm. 

Alex refuses to think about where this leads. Refuses to be the one to get the bleach to disinfect the fucking DEO medroom after the angry makeup sex that is _obviously_ about the begin. 

No. 

Nope. 

Fuck no. 

Vasquez. This is all Vasquez’s problem. Let that cunt handle the paperwork for once. Alex is a responsible human being with a reasonable work life balance. Certain tasks can just be delegated. 

Yeah. Great plan. 

She still has time to hurry over to Maggie’s and cry herself to sleep. 

(It’s really nice. Even if a very hungover DEO agent makes a hasty decision the next morning to adopt a certain Daschund. At least Gertie is cute as fuck and _not_ somehow a shapeshifting alien assassin supersoldier that gets it’s jollies kinky fucking her sister.)


	6. Two Steps Forward...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and her soulmates talk.

How the hell did we get here? 

Is this real life? 

Am I awake or is this all just a fever dream of pain and exhaustion? 

(Please don’t let me wake up.)

These were the questions that ran through Natasha’s mind as her eyes fluttered open groggily. The space she was in, a well stocked medical ward, was airy and quiet except for the soft beep of a heart monitor. Pain ached in her side and shoulder, but that’s not particularly surprising. If she had a penny for everytime she dreamed about being in pain in a hospital, she’d be a substantially richer woman. 

Still, she...mostly trusts her what her senses are telling her. Her instincts are almost always impeccable, even with the occasional, usually ptsd induced slip up. If she was dreaming or flashing back she’d almost always sense at least something off, something fishy, something that stands out and just doesn’t make sense. In the moment she might temporarily ignore those instincts and soldier on anyway if she was particularly panicked, but she’d still have them. 

...She’s not sure if the flashes of gold and black hair leaning over the bed beside her are particularly fishy or not.

Intellectually, she most definitely remembers the rather...extreme events of the last 24 hours. It makes sense in her head. Forms a neat little story. Stayed late at work alone. Some sort of cyborg, robot terrorist _thing_ attacked. Met her soulmate. Saved her life but got blasted in return. Woke up in the hospital. Watched a screaming fight between her soulmate and another woman. Figured out that said other woman is also her soulmate. Watched as said soulmates made up and angrily made out for a bit. Cracked an innuendo or three, feeling her heart racing as she watched all the pretty blushes before Kara and Lena went at it again.

Which, as she dimly recalls, was around when the spy realized that somewhere along the line that the serum had completely burnt through any pain meds in her system. Which, joy of joys, was around when it also managed to start regenerating the nerves that had been blasted by the vicious third degree burns over her neck and shoulder. Considering discretion the better part of valor, Natasha may have slammed the morphine button on her bed. She didn’t really expect much, the serum made most regular pain meds feel barely like a tylenol, but it was better than nothing. Unfortunately, Kara’s adorably annoyed sister had apparently taken an advanced metabolism into account.

This all led to the drugs hitting her system like a brick between the eyes.

Honestly she wasn’t too put out, only mildly annoyed. Her soulmates certainly made a pretty fucking picture, and were just getting to the good part, but that shit fucking _hurts_ okay? So what if potentially life changing romantic proclamations and developments were happening. Bodies have certain goddamn physical limitations. She’s only (mostly) human after all. Passing out and not having to deal with the worst of it was worth missing out on a bit of fun. 

..though the mealy mouthed, groggy hangover making itself known upon waking made it hard to think let alone _process._

Despite her brain telling her this is very much real, she has a hard time banishing the sense of the surreal superimposed over her body. Especially as she lets her eyes rake over the room and took in the two forms slumped in awkward chairs beside her. 

After all, the pair her soulmates make is so very, very perfect. Kara is still decked in the suit, but cleaned up a bit at some point. So now those artfully ruffled silvery blonde locks are spilling over peaceful sleep filled brows. The spy’s gaze can’t help but linger on the strong swell of Kara’s shoulders as they lean into the bare cement walls behind her. Especially distracting is the way they curl around the incredibly delicate form of Lena beside her. Of course the superhero had to have pulled the CEO to nuzzle into the crook of Kara’s arm in a protective cuddle. Lena, meanwhile, is all inky black locks, smooth skin and a jawline that could cut glass, even in sleep. 

All of this isn’t even mentioning the cute little snuffly sounds they both make in their obviously uncomfortable repose. Nor the way Kara’s palm unconsciously cards through Lena’s hair. Nor the tiny little motions Lena’s elegant hands make to knead at the soft yet hard swell of Kara’s abs. It rapidly gets to a point as Natasha starts making internal bets with herself on when the fluffy forest critters are going to start popping out of the woodwork and singing about the beauty of twue wuv. 

Fuck.

Gods, Kara and Lena are so very…

_Shit._

Well.

Beautiful. Strong. Caring. Full of love. **Kind.**

(Unbroken. Untested. Idealistic. Naive. Young. So very goddamn **young.** )

(Blood on her hands. Cracks in her soul. A vicious snarl in her throat as yet another enemy falls to her feet, dead. Decades of fighting. Decades of running. Lifetimes lost on nothing worthwhile.)

The spy’s heart gives a lurch, feeling bile rise up in her throat. She holds it down though. Keeps her breaths even and steady, even as she feels her palms grow sticky and wet. Even as her very bones ache and creak with exhaustion that goes beyond the physical. Even as panic clouds her minds and makes her view of her soulmates glassy and unfocused. 

(What was she even thinking? They’re already a completed pair. So many soulmates relationships don’t work out anyway. How likely is it a stable triad could even form? The world isn’t fair and it certainly isn’t kind. What’s Natasha even pretending to do here? Rob the cradle? **Ruin** one of the only truly good things left in this godforsaken universe?) 

(No. She won’t let her bloodstained hands ruin another person she cares about.)

Ordinarily the spy would probably pick herself up, go to the gym and run herself into the ground until her brain stopped trying to kill her. The thing with horrendous burns however, is that they really, really, **really** suck. With the good drugs have faded somewhat, her shoulder still _burns_ like a dozen ants are burrowing into her skin. The serum has probably vastly accelerated her healing, but even at her most optimistic best she thinks it’s likely that her shoulder is one giant scab right now. Intensive exercise popping the gigantic, potentially infected wounds open is so incredibly _not_ a good idea. 

Will probably lead to even more severe scarring in any right. The loss of skin elasticity may even reduce mobility to an extent. 

(Widows are marble. The very definition of classical beauty. Unmarred by the rigours of the world. Natalia, Irina will now show you how to ensure sure you are not ruined. So you can still be of service to the motherland.)

Despite all intents and perceptions, Natasha refuses to let herself wallow in self destruction. Moving before some sort of doctor has a chance to evaluate how bad everything is under the dressings is _not_ an option. 

So she just sits, waits and carefully hovers, poised on a knife's edge of rage and serenity. 

(She deserves this. It’s only a just penance. She never deserved them anyway. Even if she knows she’ll pathetically take any remaining scrap of positive attention and care they might make available as the pair of soulmates move forwards into _their_ future.)

So she waits. 

(It’s okay.)

“Hrm, oh, you’re awake!” A perky but tired voice chirps, bringing the redhead out of her reverie. Her gaze snaps across to the smiling blonde. Whose expression is all lit up in wide eyed wonder, barely suppressed joy and a curious lilt of relieved sadness. 

Something in Natasha’s chest clenches, especially as those strong hands gently curl in inky hair. The vice in her throat clenches even further when the Luthor snorts in the most adorably perfect surprised way as she wakes. 

(Why do the cursed gods tempt with salvation on one hand, but shove yet another prison in front of her nose with the other?)

“Good morning.” Natasha forces out through a too tight throat, tone carefully neutral. She doesn't need to start trouble first thing in the morning. 

Bright blue eyes dim as a concerned crinkle forms. 

“How are you doing? Did you sleep okay? How’s your pain levels? Are you hungry? I should go get a nurse to check you over and zip out to bring you breakfast.” The alien rambles, tone a mix of concern and earnest excitement. In a flash Kara gives Lena’s knuckles a squeeze and pops up to fuss around with the controls on Natasha’s hospital bed. 

(The ache in Natasha’s chest gets stronger. Fuck. Kara is so _kind_ )

Natasha smiles, teeth filled with what feels remarkably like broken glass. 

“I’m doing well. The pain is manageable. Thank you for the concern.” The spy replies, a very faint and slightly sad but ultimately genuine smile on her lips. 

(It reminds her so much of Laura’s fussing and it _hurts._ ) 

Kara’s gaze softens, filled with a surreal warmth and a surprising canniness. Natasha knows she’ll have to watch herself around that. It’s disconcerting if her soulmates are already starting to read some of her tells. Even if she’s exhausted and hungover, she should still have more control than _this._ The spy takes a slow breath to build herself up again from the scattered little pieces she feels like this morning.

A strong, gentle hand gives her palm a brief squeeze. Warm, thoughtful, _bright_ blue eyes meet tired green. 

“I’ll go get that nurse, and maybe pick up some halfway decent coffee on the way back. How do you take it?” The alien says, humming pleasantly. A gentle hand even pushes a lock of red hair behind an ear as the alien turns to leave the small hospital room. 

The ache in her chest warms to sluggish syrup. 

“Black as the devil's heart and sweet as a stolen kiss.” Natasha purrs, because Tony had long since trained her to never miss a chance for innuendo.

(Well, also, she doesn’t necessarily trust the coffee to be remotely drinkable, so some sugar is probably unlikely to go amiss.)

Blue eyes positively _sparkle_ with mirth.

“Coming right up _printsessa_.” Kara husks back, dropping into a surprisingly perfect (and positively _sinful_ ) Russian lilt on the last word. Then with nary a moment to process _that_ marvel the superhero leans forward. Hot breath ghosts past Natasha’s ear as smooth lips placed a quick peck on a cheek with barely a by your leave. Then, with a final wave and a flounce, the woman, hell, the dangerous force of _nature_ disappeared in a blue blur than left Natasha’s head spinning. 

All of which leaves Natasha with a couple of very important questions?

When the fuck had she let slip that she was from Russia, let alone spoke it as her primary,best and most sentimental language? 

(It’s rare, but sometimes she talks in her sleep when she’s particularly exhausted. Usually in Russian too. A bad habit the Redroom trained out of her, but always seemed to keep coming back eventually.)

When the fuck had the pretty, all american, blonde hair and apple pie Supergirl learned bloody _Russian._

When did the obviously naive, girl-next-door, innocent-as-a-goddamn-puppy Kara Danvers get so much fucking... _game._

A dark chuckle beside her ear brings her out of her stunned stupor. 

“Yeah, she has a bad habit of doing that.” Lena eventually said, a smug grin on her face. Undaunted, Natasha quirked an eyebrow imperiously to challenge for further explanation. Annoyingly enough, the smile in the CEO’s eyes just got deeper. She even called the spy’s bluff and utterly refused to respond to the unspoken demand. Instead they just stared each other down, a face-off of two implaccable rocks, unwilling to be moved first. 

The both surprisingly awkward and surprisingly comfortable silence stretched. A minute. Then two. It probably would have continued if not for a harried and overworked nurse bustling into the room to change Natasha’s bandages and check how she was healing. Rather than listening to the anticipated braying from the medical staff about, sin of sins, getting injured while fighting a supervillain, Natasha deigned to let the challenge rest. 

“Habit of doing what?” She offered as the nurse tutted and grumped around her. 

“Noticing when you’re feeling insecure and carpet bombing you with affection.” Lena replied smoothly, the smug tone turning into a shit eating grin. Natasha glared but held her tongue, letting the silence trail off into something more amused and comfortable. 

It wasn’t too long later than the nurse huffed her way out of the room after dropping off a bottle of antibiotics, leaving the two soulmates in another bout of silence. Rather than letting the silence go awkward though, Lena took the opportunity to pull out a tablet and start tapping away idly. The CEO even let out a little huff as if most of her attention wasn’t over the top of the screen on the spy and soulmate. Natasha felt herself smirk a bit at the power play, feeling herself warm to the challenging back and forth between them.

It was...nice to spar with someone close to her level. 

Lena’s eyes narrow dangerously over the tablet, as if sensing the spy’s amusement. 

Hell, she probably did. 

Even with the barest of reads that Natasha has managed to gain this morning shows Lena to be a consummate professional and potentially vicious socialite. Natasha knows that Lena knows that both of their moves are all at least a little calculated. Not necessarily for any nefarious purposes. They’re both just falling into their old patterns of moves and countermoves to figure each other out. Not showing their hands too early. Not giving up ground unnecessarily. Scouting for potential weaknesses and threats. She’s almost certain that Lena is at least as taken with her as the spy increasingly is with the CEO. 

“So.” Lena eventually begins, very carefully not looking up from her tablet. 

Natasha isn’t fooled by the perceived lack of care and casualness with which the CEO speaks. She knows she has every ounce of the impressive woman's fearsome intellect squarely focused on her tired shoulders. Knows that this is just a battle of patience and cunning. 

(The widow is so very, very patient for prey to stumble into its nest.) 

Natasha grins, sharp and sharklike to Lena’s increasing impatience. 

“Kara and I talked a little while you were out, but I was still curious what exactly you were doing at L-Corp.” The CEO continued, looking up to give Natasha a challenging glare.

“Would you believe I decided to retire and was just looking for a job?” The spy replied, tone utterly casual and unconcerned. 

“Ah, yes. _Retired._ ” Lena said dryly. Natasha had to suppress a snicker at the annoyed consternation evident in the lone crinkle on the CEO’s brow. Not knowing must _itch_ under the CEO’s skin. Natasha knows she’d feel the same way. Unknowns can always be threats after all.

A tense silence once more descends. 

(Maybe she can try again. One last time.)

“Given that for all intents and purposes I am well and truly dead without hope of seeing anybody from my old world again, nor am I obligated into service in this new world, I was simply exploring new ways to live.” Natasha eventually offered, letting her tone and body language soften just a hint. The admission is everything she hates in the world. Weakness. Vulnerability. It feels like falling to her knees, barring her throat and giving the other woman a knife with which to gut her. 

She still does it though. 

(One last time.)

“Perfectly understandable.” Lena says after a moment. The CEO’s piercing eyes smooth up and down Natasha’s expression, looking for any minute hints or cracks in the spy’s armor. Her gaze burns, but Natasha bears it without tensing. Especially as the woman’s dark eyes soften with warmth as she apparently finds whatever she’s looking for.

“Would you like to continue in your position after the end of your convalescence?” Lena continues, a tone so carefully casual and controlled Natasha is _almost_ certain she would be perfectly happy with either answer. 

(The slightest tremor in her voice betrays her though. However strong, however confident, however controlled Lena Luthor must be, Natasha knows she cares a great deal about the answer. The spy suspects a flat out rejection of the offer would feel like a rejection of Lena herself.)

“Perhaps. Though, I suspect I may need to take a few days to do a _proper_ cleanup of the ranks.” Natasha eventually said, a teasing grin on her lips. 

Lena barked a sharp laugh in response. 

(Fuck. She has a pretty laugh. All tumbling, lilting tones falling to glorious bloody spikes.)

“So I guess I have you to thank for all the anonymous packages being sent to HR lately?” Lena said, practically purring with amusement.

“No comment.” The spy replied hurriedly, and felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment of all silly things. 

_Blush._

**Her.**

Like a goddamn schoolgirl who just had her first kiss.

May wonders never cease. 

(Especially the wonder that is Kara kicking down the door a second later with a truly monstrous pile of pastries and deliciously dark italian coffee. Natasha’s hasn’t had such a perfectly delectable almond croissant, nor had such great company to share it with in _years._ )


End file.
